Insomnia
by youre-a-toaster
Summary: "I miss your voice, Kurt, I miss your smile and how you used to walk in a room and brighten everyone's day." Kurt Hummel hasn't slept properly in two years and it's pushed his family to breaking point. He's sent to Dalton Academy, a boarding school known to house some troublesome teenagers, in-house therapists and a boy who can help him more than any counsellor ever could.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Yet another story I'm working on, this and We Could Be Heroes are top of my list. Promise!_

_**Warnings:** Rated M for dark themes throughout (I mean it...) and then later chapters for a happier reason._

_I think that's all I have to say. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

I made up a points system. Essays, 100 points; exercise, 250 points; beating my previous high scores on Solitaire, 300 points. Currently, I'm baking my second batch of cookies, adding another 750 points to my total of 2150 for the night so far.

My iPod plays from the set of speakers on the counter as loudly as I can afford without waking up Carole and Finn. I had to make a playlist of acceptable music for these situations, nothing too slow or sombre. I need fast, upbeat music or else my eyelids begin to droop and that's just not acceptable. Mika is playing at the moment, I like Mika, he keeps me awake.

Carole and I have come to some sort of understanding, at night I can take over as much of the house as I like, as long as I don't wake her or her son and as long as I don't fail any of my classes. If I start to fail then I have no say in the matter, I'm being sent to a therapist and put on medication. I'm top in all my classes, or I was, anyway, so that's the least of my problems. She doesn't force me to my room anymore, which is a huge relief because it's a lot harder to stay awake when I'm in a stuffy little room with a warm, inviting bed. No, I don't use that room much at all now. I tend to stay in the kitchen where I can bake and cook to my heart's content. Carole keeps the fridge and cupboards fully stocked, she may not understand why I need it, but at least she's stopped asking too many questions, maybe she's realised the extent of my stubbornness.

It's not stubbornness, though. It's fear.

Fear, because every time I close my eyes it becomes all too real again. I feel his breath on my shoulder, his hand on my throat…

Bile bubbles up in my stomach, I try my best to suppress it but it's not worth it. I quickly run to the bathroom and empty the contents of my stomach down the toilet, heaving so much I feel I'm going to choke up a lung. When the worst passes, I collapse against the cold tile floor and breathe deeply, hugging my knees to my chest while I try to calm down.

I hear the soft pad of paws as Moss comes into the bathroom to find me. He occasionally keeps me company during the night, but not often. It's not reasonable to expect a dog to stay up 24/7 by your side. If I'm having a particularly rough night - like tonight is turning out to be - he'll usually muster enough energy to see me though until the morning. He spots me in the corner of the bathroom and bounds over to me, sniffing my face before carefully jumping up at licking me affectionately. Old me probably would have been sickened by the thought of a dog licking my face, but now I couldn't care less. I used to hate this stupid dog. Finn bought him home a couple of months after my father died in an attempt to bring some happiness and life back to Carole, it worked for her but not for me. I can't exactly remember the night we became friends, it took a while but eventually we reached a mutual appreciation for each other.

I stroke his soft fur a couple more times, mumbling a: "Good Pup," before standing up with a bit of effort. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror: limp hair, sunken eyes, hollowing cheeks. I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth out with Listerine, ignoring the lifeless form copying my every move on the other side of the glass.

* * *

The morning is always the hardest, even with Moss keeping me company. The early rays of sunshine that try to force their way through the gaps in the blinds make my eyes water and my head throb, yet another cup of coffee keeps the worst at bay. Moss pads along beside me as I potter around the kitchen, keeping busy, I clean and cook, ignoring the necessity to sleep.

By the time I hear the signs of waking life throughout the house, I've made four batches of cookies, a decorated assortment of muffins and cupcakes (more than the three of us would eat in a month) and I'm turning over slices of bacon as the smell of grease and oil fills my senses. Finn is the first to come into the kitchen, he stands in the doorframe, his tall form reaching the top as he stretches high and yawns – an action that I immediately want to punch him in the face for.

"You look like shit," he says, probably meaning it to sound concerned but rubbing me the wrong way, either way, I don't indulge him in a retort. He walks over to the breakfast bar and slouches down in one of the chairs as I wordlessly slide him a plate of eggs, toast and bacon which he digs into rapaciously.

Carole follows shortly after, instantly scolding Finn for his disgusting eating habits and more delicately taking the plate I offer her. She eyes the mountain of freshly baked confectionary piled on the counters with a softly disapproving look as she sits down. I don't like that look, it's too motherly and Carole is not my mother. She waits until I've joined them with my own plate of food before she starts eating.

"This is delicious, Kurt," she hums around a forkful once she sees I'm doing the same.

I almost feel awake now.

* * *

My skin is crawling.

I feel him on me, around me, in me. I'm scratching at my arms and face. I don't want this body, it's been polluted.

_Get off me. Get away._

I try to shout but his hand closes around my throat.

I fall back and feel a sharp pain shoot down my arm as I reach to cushion my landing, my eyes snap open and I choke back the blood-curdling scream that had been ripping my throat. I lie on the floor, breathing so harshly I feel my ribs are going to crack. It takes me a moment to realise where I am, but when I do, another half sob, half choke shakes my body, this time more in embarrassment and anger at myself for being stupid enough to fall asleep in class. A dozen faces look at me in shock, some concerned for me, most concerned for their own lives as they gawk at me like some sort of freak show. Our teacher is at a loss for words, he's dropped the whiteboard marker he had been writing with, his hand is still levitated in the air.

Finn's pocket-sized girlfriend is the first one to pipe up after another awkward thirty seconds. "Mr Schue? Do you think maybe someone should take him to the nurse? I think he's hurt his wrist."

"Ye-Yes," he clears his throat, "um, Finn, do you mind taking Kurt to the nurse's office?"

Finn takes a step towards me, reaching out to help me up. I instantly cower away from the contact, a shriek escaping my lips before I can help myself. He quickly snaps his hand away from me as realisation dawns on him, stepping back with a hurried, silent apology.

"I think it's best if Rachel takes him," Finn insists on my behalf.

I don't react as Rachel kneels down, letting me use her tiny frame to support myself into a standing position on my shaky legs. She practically growls at the others until they step aside to let us pass, I cringe away from them all, the last thing on my mind being how ridiculous I look to them.

We walk in silence down the hallway, the only sound bouncing off the lockers in my occasional sob and sniffle.

It was stupid of me to fall asleep, so stupid. I won't let that happen again.

When we stop outside the school nurse, Rachel doesn't let me go, instead she turns to me with her bright brown eyes, worrying the inside of her lip.

"Kurt, I know we're not exactly friends," she observes quietly. "But… If you ever needed one – a friend, then I'm always here to talk to or just…" She sighs, crinkling her brow with passion, "I'm really sorry about everything that's happened to you, you don't deserve it, no one does, but Finn and Carole are trying to help, they both love you so much. And maybe, one day, you'll be able to look past all the crap and just… live again. I miss your voice, Kurt, I miss your smile and how you used to walk in a room and brighten everyone's day. We all do."

She doesn't wait for a reply, not that I would give one, she just gives a quick, comforting squeeze to my hand and takes back the way we came, tears in her eyes.

* * *

"So we're not going to talk about this?" Finn blurts irritably in the almost silence, the only other noise in the Hummel-Hudson house being the sharp clinking of cutlery on china plates as we attempt to keep up the charade of family dinners.

Carole looks shocked at the outburst; I look the same as always: blank.

"Finn…" Carole softly warns, taking a sip of her water and putting it down gently.

"No, I'm sick of this!"

"Finn!" she snaps more harshly.

"We all tiptoe around like it's no big deal, but it is! I can't deal with it anymore–"

"We're doing the best we can–"

"No, we're not! Look at him! He's killing himself and you're just ignoring it. He needs help, he needs medication."

Carole looks at me helplessly, I do nothing. "Finn, this doesn't concern you," she insists.

"It does though! This family is being ripped apart again, inside out, and we're doing nothing about it. It's–" he snaps his mouth shut and clenches his fists on the table, standing up abruptly. His chair scrapes on the tiled floor before toppling backwards, he turns clumsily on his heels and storms out the kitchen, slamming the door behind him, muttering furious obscenities.

I feel a pang of guilt when Carole buries her head in her hands, the sound of her muffled snivelling going straight to my almost non-existent heart. She quickly wipes her eyes and stands up, scooping the mountain of uneaten food into a Tupperware box in the fridge and piling to plates into the sink before sitting down opposite me again. She places her elbows on the table, studying me intently, switching between resting her forehead in her hands and pressing her fingers together. I fiddle with the hem of my oversized hoodie uncomfortably.

"Finn's right," she says finally.

I shake my head gently, pleading as a knot builds up in my throat.

"This has gone on too long, Kurt. If your father were here–"

"He's not here though, it he?" I snap, my voice catching slightly from lack of use.

She clenches her eyes shut and breathes deeply. "I can't, in good conscience, let you carry on like this. Tomorrow I'm going to drive you to the Doctor's Office and we're going to do whatever it takes to get you better."

I look at her helplessly. "Please," I whisper. "Anything else. Please. Anything."

"You know what the other option is, Kurt."

"I'll go," I say without another hesitation, relief and dread drowning me.

* * *

_A/N: Like what you read so far? Leave a review __and I'll bake you some macaroons!_

_No, but seriously, stay tuned :D_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I love you guys. That is all._

* * *

**Chapter 2**

* * *

It's been two weeks since I made that promise to Carole and I've regretted it ever since. Still, I'm not regretting it enough to take up her alternative offer.

The car shudders to a halt at the end of the mile-long pebbled driveway and Carole kills the engine, pursing her lips. It takes me a second to absorb my surroundings. The building ahead looks more like a mansion than a school, all red brick and white stone arch windows. I instantly loathe it.

"Kurt…"

I don't move, I don't respond.

"I know you hate me right now," Carole continues, "but you might just like it here."

She sighs when she realises her comment will be met with nothing more than silence, opening the door and jumping out, I follow suit with less enthusiasm.

I help her grab my bags from the back seat and she offers me a warm smile. I turn on my heels and make towards the door with gold letting overhead reading, 'Dalton Academy – School of Excellence'. It makes me want to vomit. She catches up to me and gently puts a hand on my back, leading me through the doors into the reception area.

Old Me would have been amazed by the beautiful room, but I am not Old Me. The wooden half-panelled walls feel more like a prison than a wonder and the fire crackling merrily in the hearth simply makes me question the temperature outside. I look down at myself: I'm wearing baggy jeans and my oversized hoody, my shoes are completely worn and caked with mud, never before have I felt so out of place.

"You must be Kurt Hummel," a boy I hadn't even noticed was there steps towards me, hand extended.

I instantly lean back into Carole's touch to get as far from him as I can. She gives me a softly calculating look which I take as a challenge. I look back at the boy. _Not everyone's like him_, I remind myself, taking into account his laugh lines and dimples as he smiles kindly at me. He looks harmless, friendly, even. I reach the conclusion a second too late and he's already dropped his hand, bringing it awkwardly to a button on his blazer.

"My name is Nick Duval, Head Boy and Ivyside House Prefect," he smiles, showing perfectly whitened teeth, and gestures for us to follow him. He picks up some papers from the reception desk before walking us through to the main hallway. "Welcome to Dalton Academy, formed in 1861 by Everett Dalton as an art and music house. There are just a few things you need to know about this place, firstly: uniforms need to be worn at all times inside this building," – he gestures to his red and blue blazer and tie – "you're free to wear you own clothes around Ivyside but you're required to keep pristine appearance for your classes and any clubs you wish to join."

Carole nods along politely, taking in all the information while I gaze out the many windows we pass.

"There are three dorm houses here; we have Orchard House, Hillcrest and Ivyside. You're in Ivyside. Like I said before, I'm the prefect of Ivyside, so any house issues you have, come talk to me about them and I'll try to sort something out. That brings me onto my final point: Dalton enforces a complete zero-tolerance bullying policy, if you feel your being bullied or victimised in any way, shape or form, talk to me, talk to a counsellor, or talk to any of the teachers and we will make sure it gets fully resolved. But trust me, you have nothing to worry about."

He grins at me again and I try my best to make my lips twitch up in response.

"And here is your timetable and map of the school so you don't get too lost."

He hands me the papers he picked up earlier and I glance down at them. Two of the blocks on my timetable read 'COUNSELLOR – E.P. – 216'. The rest of the blocks are filled with all my classes, I note that I have nothing on Friday until 2:30. Free periods. That's just what I need, more free time…

Carole continues to make polite small talk with Nick as I walk beside them in silence. Nick holds open a door and lets us pass through to the courtyard outside. I see three houses in the distance standing around the gargantuan sports field, it's not a challenge to work out which one's which. The house straight ahead is backed by a hill, to the right is what can be nothing other than a fruit orchard, and the house on the left has a wall completely encased in ivy. Each house has the same grandeur as the actual school building, and all are a small trek away and apart.

"Can you guess what their names are?" Nick jokes, receiving a small laugh from Carole and as we make off to a path on the left towards Ivyside.

As we get closer to the house, even I, full of bitterness, can't deny the beauty and charm the building holds.

We enter into the foyer and I have to admit it's almost breath-taking. It has the same wooden panelling as the reception back at the school but with subtle differences making it radiate beauty. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, illuminating the room in a warm glow, revealing the hallways that come off at either side, one opening into a recreational area and the other to a kitchen. A great staircase curves up on either side, leading to a balcony all around the room with the same hallways copied from the floor below.

"I'll show you to your room and then I can give you a quick tour of the house," Nick says, walking up the giant staircase. He goes towards the hallway on the right and we follow him. I can tell Carole has already fallen in love with the school and I have half a mind to offer her a switch of places.

Nick stops outside one of the many doors lining the wall with a small golden 221 nailed to the top of the frame, he unlocks it quickly and hands me the key before ushering us in. The room is huge and richly furnished. A plush couch is pushed against the side wall, a giant television set and games console sat opposite it. A grand piano is set next to one of the desks. Two desks. Two beds. _Two beds_. I feel my throat go dry and my hands grow clammy.

"Your roommate will be back in a while, his class finishes in half an hour."

I look to Carole and the air of calm she's possessing. She knew, of course she knew. I could handle the all-boys' school. I could hand the all-boys' _boarding_ school, but for some reason an all-boy roommate in said all-boys' boarding school hadn't occurred to me.

* * *

It's dark outside now and Carole has left. I've barely been out the room since she went. I have no idea where my roommate is because he still isn't here, and I'm pretty sure classes don't go on until half eight. Not that I care, I'd much rather stay here on my own. To say I'm panicking is an understatement. I can't let myself sleep, I just can't. But I can't very well stay up all night in the darkness when I have a sleeping roommate and nowhere else to go. I grow to hate Carole a little more every second.

"You didn't think to run this past me?"

I look up from my book as I hear the muffled talking from the other side of the door.

"It's not a big deal, Blaine. You're one of the only people who doesn't share a room," Nick defends.

"You don't share a room."

"I'm a prefect."

"Oh what a load of–"

"Why the long face, Blainers?" another voice chimes in.

"Go away, Jeff."

"Oh, did he just find out about the new guy?" Jeff asks.

"Look, just be kind for one night and I'll sort something else out tomorrow," Nick assures.

"Promise?"

"Sure…"

"He's lying."

"Go away, Jeff," Nick says.

I hear the door handle turn and I quickly bury myself back into the book I'm holding.

"Be nice!" Nick whispers before the door closes.

I can't help myself as I look up. Now, I've spent a long time completely repressing any sexual urges I feel, but the second I meet his gaze, I swear I could have blushed if I didn't feel so dead inside. I quickly look back to my book as I see his lips soften into a smile. I keep my head down as he walks across to the TV and picks up a PlayStation controller, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. I'm glad he doesn't have issues with personal space.

* * *

I have no idea what the time is and I don't want to look. The rest of the house is silent, I am still reading, and Blaine is still perfectly content playing Harry Potter Lego on the console. I've looked up from my book a few times and met his gaze, he opens his mouth as if to say something, but I always look back down before he gets the chance. I have to keep reminding myself to turn the page every now and then because for the past couple of hours I haven't read more than three sentences, I just stare at the pages blankly, urging my mind to make some sort of sense of all the words.

"I'm sorry if I'm keeping you up," Blaine says eventually. I note the hint of reluctance as he speaks. "I can turn the lights of but…"

"You're not," I reply, surprising myself.

He looks at me and raises an eyebrow quizzically.

"You're not keeping me up," I clarify.

He meets my gaze and something clicks. We both understand. I see the bags under his eyes and his tired posture. He nods. I'm about to go back to my fake reading when he reaches over to me, passing me a PlayStation controller and tagging me into his game.

"Welcome to 221," he mutters with a bitter smile.

* * *

_A/N: Big up to my wonderful Beta, Carrie!_

_I woke up this morning to the wonderful sight of 17 emails regarding this story, and I was so happy I whacked this out in a couple of hours._

_Reviews = cookies and chapters for you!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Don't get too comfortable with the frequent updates. That's college for you! I'll try my best to update at least once a week still :)_

_Happy reading!_

* * *

**Chapter 3**

* * *

I don't speak a word to Blaine while we complete the PlayStation game together. He will occasionally look to me and smile or give me tips on how to play, but overall, we're comfortable just going along in silence. It's nice. His company is an almost pleasant change from the countless lonely nights I've had before. When the sunlight fully shines through the floor-to-ceiling window and movement can be heard through the walls, we turn of the console and go back to our own things.

"I'm going to have a quick shower and then the bathroom's all yours," Blaine says.

He waits until I nod in response, he's already realised I'm not the talkative type and doesn't try to pester me into conversation which is a huge relief. Still, he understands common courtesy, and that's probably more than I can say about myself.

When I hear the sound of running water from the en suite, I walk over to the bed Nick had pointed out was mine. I sit on it gently and the mattress squeaks, springs dig into my legs which is a comfort to my mind more than anything. Even if I drift off at some point, the mattress will hopefully ensure it's not for long. The mandatory uniform is folded neatly at the end of the bed and I can tell just by a glance that Carole gave them my old sizes, sizes that will hang loosely from my stretched frame. I pick up the tie and run it through my fingers. It's a beautiful material: silk. I remember a time when I would have loved these uniforms, even jumped at the opportunity to feel their rich fabrics and admire the deep colours. I used to keep a giant scrapbook in my room, full of textiles and patterns, maybe to use one day when I would be a fashion or interior designer. However, lack of sleep makes it awfully hard to have big dreams, so like almost everything else that once held my attention, it's sitting in a box in the garage gathering dust.

Next to the small mahogany bedside table lays the duffel bag with my 'normal' clothes in. I sigh and lean down to open it, there's no way Carole's letting me move back home after half a day, so I see no reason not to unpack it. I slowly go about folding the clothes neatly into my assigned drawers and wardrobe – _slowly_, because to be honest, I'm too tired to go at any other speed. I rub the cuff of my jumper over a spot on the dressier pair of my shoes, shining it and showing pride in at least one item I own.

I don't particularly pay attention when I hear the shower turn off and the bathroom door open. I do pay attention when I glance up and see Blaine standing there with nothing more than a bath towel around his waist. I can't do anything to stop the way my body visibly tenses up and my lungs feel like they're going to collapse from pure fear. He stares at me. It's the way my old classmates used to stare at me. The alarm, the confusion, and then an expression I don't often see: realisation.

"I'm sorry," he says hurriedly, rushing over to his wardrobe and pulling on a shirt upside down in his haste. "I wasn't… I mean, I'm not– I just–"

I grab the uniform off my bed along with clean underwear and crouch-run towards the bathroom door as though I'm escaping from some sort of terrorist. The door slams and my trembling fingers reach to lock it. I collapse into a shaking mess on the floor, full of self-loathing.

* * *

"Somniphobia… Does that mean anything to you, Kurt?"

I've been in this room fifteen minutes and I already hate it.

Miss Pillsbury sits across from me, she has her journal open on her lap and her pen poised. Occasionally she'll look across to her computer screen and back to her journal, scribbling a note before looking back to me.

"Kurt?" She waits a minute more to see if I respond. I don't. "_Somini_… The Latin word for sleep. _Phobia_ means fear."

I don't say a word.

"It's slightly different from insomnia. Insomnia tends to be when you can't sleep, somniphobia can escalate from that until you won't." She looks at me with doe eyes, pursing her lips together and twirling a ring round on one of her fingers, waiting patiently for me to make some sort of remark.

"Okay," she says, sitting up a little and straightening her skirt. "How about a word association game?"

No reply.

"I say a word, and then you say the first thing that pops into your mind when you hear it."

I'm silent.

"Coffee," she starts hopefully.

Silence.

"Bed?" she offers.

Silence.

"Dark."

Silence.

"Fire… Pillow… Food… Home…"

Silence, silence, silence and more silence. I begin to wonder if this woman is even properly qualified. She purses her lips again and scribbles more notes in her little book, looking at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, and then going back to writing more notes.

"Kurt, I see people like you every day," she says softly, resting her pen down and concentrating on me. "It's not a bad thing to need a little help, no one will think any less of you. But to make the best of these therapy sessions I do need you to talk to me… We can talk about anything at all, anything you want. We can talk about what you watched on TV last night or what you ate for breakfast, I don't mind, but at some point I need you to open up to me. I've read your file, I know, but it doesn't work that way. I need _you_ to tell me about everything, and then I can help."

I nod wordlessly, surprising us both.

"Do you… want to talk now?" Miss Pillsbury asks gently.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "No," I say and shake my head, looking away.

"Okay," she assures. "Okay, that's fine. Take all the time you need. We're making progress already."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I feel another warning is required. This is not a happy chapter._

_I've been sitting on this for a while out of fear!_

_LIKE, SERIOUSLY: NOT A HAPPY CHAPTER. DARK TIMES! Like... This is M for a reason and right now it is not a good M, it is an evil M._

_And I think my Beta now thinks I'm a psychopath..._

* * *

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Blaine isn't here and I don't know where he is; part of me is worried but the more selfish side is annoyed at the lack of distraction. Caffeine. I need caffeine. Coffee, tea, Red Bull, anything. I practically throw my book across the room in frustration. Where is he? Surely it's just plain courtesy to mention to your roommate that you won't be in for two nights in a row. Two nights of pure boredom.

I glare at the book I threw and then soften my features, realising it takes too much energy to glare, reluctantly standing up to retrieve it. I examine the pages and spine regretfully before carefully discarding in on my desk. I pinch the bridge of my nose and rub my eyes.

Not tonight. I won't sleep tonight.

I pick up my now-signature hoodie and slide it over my bony frame, leaving the silent room in the quest for coffee.

The house is eerily still. I used to have my music on back home to drown out the lack of noise. Now it's everywhere. It seeps into the walls and floor, I'm breathing in the quiet and the darkness and it's almost suffocating, it's like the Sandman's lure. The stairs creek as I make my way downstairs and I feel through the shadow for the handrail to guide me. I make the journey from memory, not that I've particularly explored this part of the house before; there are always too many people. I turn down the small corridor coming off from the foyer towards the kitchen. It looks lighter up ahead, the moonlight shines brightly through the kitchen windows and I walk forward more assertively.

I don't bother with the light switch, my eyes are adjusting now so I just leave it be. I easily find the coffee and mugs and go about making a nice brew to get me through the night. The kettle hums while I look out the window to the patio. It takes me a second to work out the shape of the man outside. Blaine rests his elbows on the low stone wall, he occasionally takes a drag from the cigarette hanging loosely in his hand and from afar I admire the way he breathes it in, the peaceful look that softens his features before he exhales in a plume of smoke.

I frown to myself, no longer feeling the need for coffee as my mind ponders over what I'm seeing. Why hadn't he come up to our room? Why is he outside looking so… vacant?

The patio doors are unlocked, and the air outside is surprisingly refreshing, I don't know why I'm walking towards him, it's not as though I'm going to say a word. Even so, my legs carry me forward until I'm standing a little way away. He hasn't seen me and the awkwardness builds up in my brain. I turn silently and begin to walk back to the house.

"Kurt?"

Blaine looks at me. He doesn't smile but he doesn't look at all angry; he simply looks miserably tired, helpless, even.

I walk over to him, still keeping a distance as I hop up onto the wall as he turns back to face me.

"Smoke?" he offers, holding the pack out to me.

I shake my head.

"Probably for the best. Disgusting habit to get into." He bitterly frowns at the cigarette in his hand as though it's a personal offence to him before taking another drag.

"Sorry I wasn't there last night," he says on an exhale. "Did you sleep at all?"

I shake my head.

"You're not much of a talker, are you?"

I give a shrug which receives a short, humourless laugh from Blaine.

He's silent for a while, breathing in and out the smoke somewhat therapeutically. "Do you ever bottle things up so much, bury them so much in your mind that one day you just explode?"

I don't reply. I don't feel I need to.

"I mean, you'd think that's what all the therapists are there for but it's just… They don't really care. You're just a number to them, a checkbox. What's the point in telling things to someone who doesn't give a shit?"

He holds onto the wall and leans back on his heels angrily, letting out a furious whisper-shout as he rocks back into place onto the balls of his feet. He stubs out his cigarette on the stone and throws it onto the other side of the wall.

He's silent once again and I wait for him to speak, understanding he needs me there for some reason, just to vent at, just to be understood.

"I was twelve when I came out. My parents thought it was a phase, they didn't understand how I could possibly think I was gay at such a young age. My brother knew, he always knew because he actually spent time with me, he probably knew before me. My father would try and set me up with beautiful girls at all his work events but I just felt nothing for them. Nothing at all. Then when I was fourteen there was this one girl… She was so… stunning, even I couldn't disagree, but still there was nothing real.

"But I remember the first time I saw her. Annabelle…" he rolls the name on his tongue. "I thought I'd walked into a dream. Bright red hair, angelic face, she wore this blue dress and she just looked so… If I were ever so inclined it would have been for her. She was the one who walked over to me, she wrapped her arm around mine and rolled her eyes when she saw our parents drinking wine together, already congratulating themselves on creating such a perfect partnership," he spits the words bitterly, reaching back into his pocket and pulling out another cigarette, tapping in on the wall before putting it between his lips and lighting it up.

I listen intently, waiting for his hands to stop shaking as he continues his satisfying inhale and exhale of the smoke.

"I told her straight away, I told her I was gay and that my dad panicked, trying to set me up with any one of his colleague's daughters, nieces, granddaughters, anyone, really. Belle just laughed and said the exact same thing. We became best friends after that. Our parents went along happily believing we had overcome our phases when really we were just helping each other beard them…"

He pauses again, taking another drag. My heart jumps to my throat when I notice the tear tracks down his cheeks.

He sniffs before continuing. "Our parents were so happy at how well we'd grown together they put us into the same school. We thought we'd done it. We thought we'd convinced everyone we were as straight as can be, and if we kept it up for a couple more years we could move away and actually be the people we knew we were. We were so happy we let the act slip slightly. She would spend break-times behind the school bins, kissing girls, and I would happily check out the guys that walked my way. As long as our parents never found out, as long as we walked through the school gates holding hands, we would be fine.

"My parents were so happy when they drove me to her house to pick her up for the end of year school dance, they didn't know that we had very different intentions for the evening. We got out the car together, holding hands as we always did, as soon as we were inside and out of sight, we let go, smiling and going out separate ways. The evening was perfect, she danced with her would-be girlfriend and I spent the whole time with the guy I'd had a crush on since I first laid eyes on him.

"I got a text from my father that he was round the corner, ready to pick us up and so I went to find her and we left together as planned. There were a group of kids standing by the gate and we thought nothing of them… Until they blocked our way and pulled out a load of weapons from their pockets."

My heart beats erratically, not wanting to know what happens next. Blaine puts his cigarette to his lips again with shaking hands, breathing deeply.

"They beat us up... Well, they beat her up and pinned me down. She cried and screamed but the music inside was too loud to hear. And her face… She was so beautiful… And then they–" He sniffs and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "Two guys held my leg straight and another one kicked it and kicked it until…"

I find my cheeks wet, too.

"It was such a mess. This plays in my head every second and I still don't– There was alcohol, and then there was a flame and then she was on fire," he whispers. "And just like that they ran away. She screamed and burned and the pain from my leg made me pass out. I couldn't help her. I… I couldn't help her."

Blaine cries. I cry. I don't even flinch away as he turns and reaches for me, burying his face in my neck while I wrap my arms as tightly as I possibly can around him, trying my best and ultimately failing at holding together the broken boy with the broken heart.

* * *

_A/N: I did warn you._

_Reviews get you tissues. I hope I haven't depressed anyone too much._

_IN ALL HONESTLY I PROMISE THIS STORY ENDS WITH RAINBOWS AND BUTTERFLIES!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I swapped this and the next chapter around because the next one is super angsty, and I thought with the previous chapter you'd all die of an angst overdose. So this one is just like... semi-angst. I've said it too much and now it feels weird. Angst. Angst. Angst._

* * *

**Chapter 5**

* * *

"Any plans for the weekend, Kurt?"

Miss Pillsbury looks at me with her bright, wide eyes. I don't talk. We've spent the last three quarters of an hour doing this repeatedly. She asks me question, I don't reply, she takes notes, she asks me another question, once again I don't reply and then she takes more notes.

All I can think about is Blaine. Poor Blaine. Poor, poor, fucked up Blaine…

For the past two days I've thought of nothing else. I held him as close as I possibly could as he cried into my neck; I comforted him, running a hand soothingly through his curls and stroking calming circles on his back. Eventually my own skin stopped crawling with fear. I never let myself this close to anyone. Ever. But this was about Blaine, and Blaine was as broken as me. I revelled in the connection. Eventually his cries stopped, then he pulled away, wiped his eyes, offered a gracious smile and turned on his heels. In other words: he pissed off again.

I've decided that I'm angry at him, a realisation that stirs something deep in the pit of my stomach. I haven't been angry at anyone since… Well, I haven't felt _anything_ since then. And now, all of a sudden, I feel everything. Of course, I'm angry, but then I'm happy because I'm at least feeling anger, bringing alarm to why I'm happy, anxiety from the fear of happiness at being angry, and a hundred other emotions all rolling up into a giddy ball of fatigue.

* * *

Carole texts me when she's parked outside Dalton rather than calling. I grab the duffel bag from under my bed which I'd packed with some of my clothes to wash, give the room a quick once over to check there's nothing else I'll want for the next few days and then leave. Blaine isn't anywhere to be seen. I try to keep my head down as I walk past the other residents of Ivyside, Nick sees me from his room and waves, calling a quick: "Have a nice weekend!" I lift my hand in an awkward reply, and then I'm on my way.

She waits for me at reception, when she sees me she gives me a warm smile, a one-sided hug and takes my bag. I scribble my name on the 'Home' register and we leave. The drive back is tedious. She asks at least a hundred questions, and if I bother to reply it's in short, two worded answers. Otherwise, we sit in silence because the car radio is broken and Carole still can't bring herself to visit a mechanic since my dad died.

When we eventually pull up on our driveway, I find myself surprised at how unchanged the house is. I feel as though it should be different somehow, but it's not, it's exactly how it's always been, which in itself feels foreign. Finn keeps an awkward distance from me as I instantly drop my bags in the hallway and go to the kitchen, pottering around and getting started on an elaborate dinner. My speakers are still sat in the corner, I plug my iPod in and put it on shuffle. I don't like this house anymore. Even the kitchen has a strange, familiar eeriness which gives me shivers. It used to be my place but now it's as though it's no one's. It looks exactly the same, nothing's changed, barely anything has moved at all, but something's missing that I can't quite put my finger on and it sets me on edge.

I don't ask for any help while cooking, it'd be pointless if I did because then there would be one less thing to distract me from sleeping. It's caught up on me, I can't have slept more than hour the whole week and I'm practically dead on my feet. I'd have to be careful tonight. Just laying the table is nearly killing me I'm so tired. When I stand in front of the cooker, stirring my home-made celery and Stilton soup in the saucepan I feel my eyelids begin to droop, I reach over and flick the kettle on for safekeeping and pinch myself to stay awake a little longer.

* * *

Carole is surprised when I go to my bedroom soon after finishing the washing up from dinner; she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and wishes me a good night before disappearing into her own room. I'm exhausted. Absolutely shattered. I'm actually starting to wish I'd stayed at Dalton for the weekend, perhaps then I would at least have Blaine to distract me from the weariness. Part of me wonders what he's doing right now. Is he still playing the game we started on the PlayStation? Reading? Writing? Once or twice when my lessons finished early, or he just didn't expect me back, I would hear the piano from the other side of the wall, he'd always stop when I put my key in the door and act as though he hadn't just been playing the most beautiful song I'd ever heard in my life. I don't really mind what he's doing. I just hope he's as miserable as me.

That's the anger talking.

I turn all the lights on, I open the window wide, letting the freezing air drift in, I quickly strip the bed, turn my music on loud and set my alarm to rip me away from my dreaming state. I lie down rigidly, not looking forward to what I'm about to do, but feeling the inevitability weighing down on my eyelids. I double check my alarm, it should go off in twenty minutes. I triple check it to make sure. I start to feel myself drift to sleep almost instantaneously.

They follow the same pattern. He says the same words. Generally, it's all exactly the same. Hands on my throat, crushing, gasping. Kicking, screaming, scratching, biting, blazing. And then, just like that, nothing. That's the worst part. The lack of anything. No air, no feeling, no fight. _You let this happen_.

My alarm goes off and I gratefully wake up, albeit, shaking and sweating and feeling sick to my stomach. Still, those hadn't been the worst dreams I can have. I give myself time to calm down before setting my alarm again and repeating the procedure. Five times I do this. Twenty minutes sleeping, quite a lot longer awake before another twenty minutes sleeping… When the sunlight starts to explode through my open window, I'm satisfied with the fact I slept, even for only an hour and a half.

* * *

_A/N: Reviews make my heart go WEEEEE like super WEEEEEE._

_Anyone else planning on watching Glee next week with a tub of Ben & Jerry's and a bottle of vodka?_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I am so sorry this has taken so long! College has been completely mental the past few weeks I've barely had a minute to myself. Anyway..._

_Oh and Klaine/Glee/The Break-Up. Still crying._

* * *

**Chapter 6**

* * *

It would be a lot simpler if I could drive myself to Dalton but Carole seems to think sleep deprivation and driving don't go hand in hand, and so I've packed my things back in her car and she's taking me the two hours back to Westerville. It's all very dull. She tries to lighten to mood, attempting games of _I Spy_ which I'm not buying; I let her requests fall silent and she purses her lips uncomfortably. I agreed I'd go to Dalton, I did not agree to do a happy song and dance every time I went.

"I promise in a couple of weeks you'll fit right in," she says, glancing at me quickly and looking back at the road.

I make a point of turning to her without saying a word before turning back.

"How's your counsellor?" she asks to fill the silence. "Emma… Pullberry?"

"Pillsbury," I correct before scolding myself for responding.

Carole smiles smugly.

* * *

The walls of Dalton and Ivyside surround me once again, I hate to admit to myself that it's a comfort. I found Blaine in our room last night and we went back to our old ways: sitting on opposite sides of the couch – me 'reading' and Blaine doing whatever it is Blaine does. Lessons are boring. The therapy sessions are boring. In fact, the only non-boring thing about this place is Blaine and even then we spend our time together doing our own things in silence.

I've long since forgotten the charade I was attempting as I sit on my side of the sofa. I have a notebook and a pen in my hand for no apparent reason, I'd probably wanted to write something or perhaps draw, all I've done though is doodle noughts and crosses boards all over the page, playing against myself. Boredom. I look quickly towards Blaine; completely engrossed in a book, eyebrows gravitating together, lips pursed, gently biting the inside of his cheek. I wish I could look like him, he looks peaceful.

I want to speak to him. I want to be able to hold a conversation and keep his interest. I want to be his friend, which is a weird thing for me because I'm not one for friends. Even before all… _this_… I never had friends, I had Rachel but that was it and all we ever did was sit together at lunch and joke about our teachers. I was always content with that. But with Blaine I feel different, I don't want to talk to him about the teachers at Dalton, I want to talk to him about nothing, just the random nothings that friends talk about. But in order to talk about nothings, I need to talk about myself.

"When I was three all I wanted for my birthday was a pair of sensible heels."

Blaine jumps slightly and clutches his chest at the sound of my voice while mumbling a quiet: "Jesus!"

I ignore it before I get the chance to chicken out. "I've never been ashamed of who I am." He looks at me and I feel my cheeks redden. "But there was this guy at my old school… this…. Neanderthal… and he made it his mission to make my life a living hell. He barely did anything other than throw me in bins and push me into lockers but one day he just…" My throat tightens and I can't speak.

Blaine takes a second to compose himself from the shock of me finally speaking. "Kurt, you don't have to–"

"He grabbed me and–"

"Kurt…"

"Every time I close my eyes I see his face and I can feel my skin–" I give up trying to speak because I don't think anyone can actually understand me at this point. All I do is shake and scratch at my arms; the kind of cries escaping me that build up from your gut and shred your throat. It wasn't exactly how I wanted this to go.

I sense Blaine rather than see him. He moves closer to me on the couch and tentatively places a hand on my shoulder. Usually I would cower away but right now I don't, instead I push away my fears and curl into his touch. It feels warm and safe and I barely have time to question it as I press closer, burying my face in his shoulder. He wraps a strong, comforting arm around my back and he soothingly rubs circles on my back, leaving a small, tingling trail of warmth where his skin brushes against mine.

"I couldn't stop him. He had this look in his eyes and… He said he'd kill me if I told anyone." My voice comes out muffled from Blaine's shirt and he gently hushes me.

"You don't have to explain. You don't have to relive it on my behalf," he says softly.

"I can't sleep," I sob. "I won't sleep. Every time I try it all hits me again."

"I know, I know," Blaine sniffs.

"And then my dad… I was getting better for a while but then his heart attack…" The tears start again and I soak through Blaine's collar. I think Blaine's crying too, but I can't be sure. "Now I'm back to square one, she couldn't deal with me so she shipped me off to the worst place for me on Earth."

I fall to silence for a while, my tears eventually stop and as if on cue the numbness takes over my body soon enough.

"He won." The words escape me like stone. Solid. Certain. Unavoidable. Harsh.

"I wouldn't say that," Blaine reasons.

I understand. I feel his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of my neck. My chest is pressed against his and I can feel his heartbeat echoing my own. My skin doesn't crawl and I don't cringe away while he holds me. I feel safe. I just feel.

"We're going to be okay," he promises.

And for the first time in over a year, I feel that small, glowing bubble of hope in my chest.

* * *

_A/N: IDK. I've written this about four times and I'm still not happy but my fabulous Beta loved it so it will do. I'll try and get the next chapter up sooner :D_

_Much love!_

_Reviews = crack_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I fail, I'm sorry! Enjoy :)_

* * *

**Chapter 7**

* * *

"How do you do it?"

"Huh?" Blaine murmurs.

"How do you stay awake?" I clarify.

"Oh," he exhales, puffing his cheeks out as if debating whether or not to tell me the truth. "Drugs... Uppers."

"Seriously?"

"Don't you?"

"Coffee."

"You're kidding..."

"No. Just coffee. And I keep myself occupied; I set up this score system. It's stupid really. Seven hundred and fifty points for cookies, four hundred for every chapter of a book I read, a thousand if I do a drawing. If I sing a song, it's a lot more, but I never do that anymore because I'm always too... tired..."

"Cookies?"

"I like cooking," I say matter-of-factly.

He looks at me curiously from his cross-legged position on his side of the couch and I feel my cheeks redden; usually I leave it to him to do the talking. It's nice talking to Blaine though. I haven't made much progress with Miss Pillsbury, or my teachers, or other students, or anyone else in the house at all for that matter. But I can talk to Blaine.

"You shouldn't do drugs. Drugs are bad for you," I add lamely, repeating something he's probably heard a thousand times.

He rolls his eyes lightly with a grin, "Kurt, everything we do is bad for us."

I purse my lips and try to ignore the thrill of hearing Blaine say my name. There's something about the way his lips part and the 't' gets caught on the tip of his tongue.

"Even so," I say while attempting to formulate some sort of argument in my head, an act I fail at because I'm getting too tired to function. A yawn escapes before I can help myself.

"You need sleep," Blaine observes.

"So do you," I object.

"I've got a couple of days still left in me."

"I don't want to. I'm not... No." I can feel the panic burning up from the pit of my stomach just at the thought of it.

Blaine raises his hands in defeat; it's supposed to be a calming gesture. "Do you want to do something to take your mind off it?" He asks, biting the inside of his cheek as though it would help him think of ideas. "I could help you make some cookies?"

"I don't have any of my supplies," I say petulantly as I bring my knees up and hug them to my chest.

We're both silent for a while, a slight air of awkwardness fills the room and I'm angry at myself for making it so. _What's the worst that could happen?_ I ask myself. Even though just the thought of purposefully going through those torturous dreams again makes me sick to my stomach, Blaine's right, I'm shattered.

"Will you wake me up?" I ask shyly. "I mean... If I look... you know."

Blaine looks up again and his gaze holds mine for a moment or two. "I promise."

It's weird to think it's only been a week and a half since I met Blaine and yet I trust his word absolutely. Slowly I nod and turn on my side, curling into myself and using my arm as a pillow. I feel him scoot farther away on the couch to give me more room which is something I'm thankful for.

He's quiet, I'm quiet, and despite my hardest attempts eventually I feel myself slip under the Sandman.

* * *

Blood pounds in my ears as his hands are crushing my throat. Mine are scratching at him. Anything I can reach. Scratch. Punch. Push. He's heavy. Too heavy. My ribs feel as though they're about to cave in from the weight. I try to scream but there's no sound. There's only the pounding in my ears. I'm still scratching. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. I feel blood and skin under my nails but he doesn't yield, I kick and gasp and choke and yet nothing I can do deters him.

He grabs my hands roughly, holding my wrists together until I'm almost certain they'll break. My throat is raw and bruised from his fingers and my face is pressed against the cold floor. Everything else is so warm it makes me welcome it. I want to fall through it. I want the cold and the ice to freeze the fire. I want it to end. Let it end.

"Kurt!" his voice is too kind. Too sweet. Too caring.

My hands are free. I force a fist and lunge it forwards without a second thought.

"Kurt!"

My eyes flash open from the pain in my hand and Blaine moves before my fist has a chance to collide with his cheekbone once again.

I correct myself quickly before it happens for a second time; I cradle my arm to my chest and take deep, shuddering breaths that make me feel as though I've been lifted out of deep water. Blaine's cheek is already swelling and turning a nasty red. He looks as if he barely notices. He just stares at me, wanting to help but not having a clue how.

"Kurt," he repeats, softer, gentler, sadder.

I cry, clenching my eyes shut with disgust at myself.

"You're safe," he breathes. "I swear, I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe."

"But I hurt _you_," I choke.

"That wasn't... It wasn't for me," he says understandingly.

I feel his fingertips brush a hair from my forehead, it's not an entirely unpleasant feeling, I somewhat welcome the gesture, it makes a nice contrast to those horrible dreams. I take one more steadying breath and slowly open my eyes. It surprises me when I'm not surprised Blaine is so close, so close I could count every freckle and eyelash if I had the time. I get that feeling again – that fluttering in my throat. Once more I find myself wishing I could hold a normal conversation with another person.

There's something in his honey eyes trying to tell me something but before I can work it out, he blinks and stands up, stepping away to let me sit properly. I can't help the gut-wrenching disappointment that follows.

Why does sleep have to be so exhausting?

* * *

"Why are you here, Kurt?"

Miss Pillsbury asks me the same question at the beginning of every session and I still haven't responded to a single one yet. The sight of progress she'd been so happy with before very quickly diminished, leaving her even more relentless to make some sort of breakthrough.

* * *

Ivyside has been silent for hours now. Once again, Blaine is nowhere to be found. Maybe he's finally had enough of me and has begged Nick to set him up in another room. Or maybe he went to the principal and told him I'd punched him in the face and now he's left the house altogether. Or maybe he's discovered he can spontaneously combust, so he's distancing himself from human contact. Or alien abductions, maybe? All I know is: he's not here and I feel bitterly responsible.

I feel like I'm about to lose my mind from boredom when there's a knocking at the door. It opens before I'm out of my seat.

"Good, you're dressed," Blaine chirps at my frown, his head appearing from round the corner. "I got you some supplies."

My eyebrows knit together tighter, not being able to hide my disapproval. "I thought I made it clear about the drugs–"

"No. No. Not that kind of supplies," he laughs quietly, "Cooking. Cooking supplies."

"What?"

"You said you like to cook," he clarifies as though it should be obvious. "So I went a got a load of stuff for you to use. Not really sure what half of it is but–"

"You did that for me?" I ask disbelievingly. "I... Why?"

He shrugs and bites the inside of his lip. "Help you take your mind off..."

For a moment I'm not sure what to say. No one has ever tried to reach out to me like that before and I struggle to find a way to show how truly appreciative I feel. "Thank you," I sniff, feeling my mouth dry.

"And I could help if you wanted. I bought some recipe books and a lot of it looks a little tricky. I mean... I get it if it's your thing–"

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me," I respond a moment later. "Thank you," I repeat at a loss for better words.

"So... Can I help?" Blaine asks as his confidence dissipates slightly.

I smile. I really smile. It makes me feel dizzy with happiness and my cheeks ache after a second from lack of use, but I still smile. If Rachel were here, she'd smile too because for the first time in months I look like me. I don't need a mirror to see that; the way Blaine's face lights up in reply is enough. "Of course."

* * *

_A/N: I've already written half the next chapter so it should be up within a week :)_

_Who's seen all the ice skating pictures? Anyone else dying a little bit inside?_

_Reviews get you chocolate chip cookies!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Told you I'd post again this week! I'm making way on the next chapter too so that shouldn't be too long. Also this week's episode of Glee got me back in the mood for writing WCBH so if you haven't already, go check that fic out and I'll love you forever :)_

* * *

**Chapter 8**

* * *

I laugh gently, feeling pleasantly surprised how seriously Blaine's taking his cooking lesson. He's an adorable mess. He insisted on wearing the apron and doing everything by the book; he'd almost look professional if it wasn't for the smears of cake mix on his face and the flour congealed in his – for once – loose curls. The unfamiliar ding of the new cooker timer he bought me rings and it snaps me out of my ogling reluctantly. Blaine looks up with a grin, watching to see what's become of our cupcakes while still whizzing a wooden spoon in the cookie mix we'd moved on to.

"You can use a blender, you know," I smile, watching as Blaine almost spills half the dough onto the table top.

"That defeats the point, surely."

I beam. It feels like home. My real home before it no longer felt like home: home from a childhood almost forgotten when my mother – _real_ mother – would sit me on the counter and let me watch as she cooked all her lavish confections. Cooking bread was always my favourite – the smell of the yeast infusing the air, the warmth of it beneath the fingertips, the satisfying break of the first loaf. I feel a pang of sadness at the memories which steadily mixes with the happy realisation that her legacy lives on. The smell of cupcakes as I open the oven door and put them on the counter makes my mouth water and Blaine sighs hungrily beside me.

"Can we eat them?"

"Not yet," I say, faking stern. "We need to ice them."

"I'll do it!" he volunteers, I have to bite my lips together to not laugh at how delightfully eager he is.

"They need to cool down first, otherwise they'll collapse and the icing will just melt." I get to work on transferring them carefully to the wire racks. I make a mental note do another round of washing up after so we don't run out of bowls and spoons.

"How did you get so good at all this?" asks Blaine, seeing how I knowingly flitter from place to place around the kitchen.

I shrug. "Lots of practice, I guess."

"Your mom doesn't mind you staying up every night cooking?"

"She's not my mom."

"Oh," he says as though he understands, but clearly not. "I just thought–"

"My mom got really sick when I was a kid. One night she just didn't make it. Four years ago my dad got remarried, and then last winter he had a heart attack and now I'm here."

A static silence fills the room. My chest pounds and aches and I try and sniff away the lump in my throat.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says eventually, having stilled his avid mixing.

The tightening in my throat stops me from speaking so I reply with a curt nod. Blaine has that look in his eyes again - that look as though he's dying to say something but holding back for a reason unbeknown to me. He goes back to stirring and I turn away and fill the washing up bowl with hot water and bubbles, wiping an escaped tear from my cheek, hoping he wouldn't see.

* * *

It's been an hour or so of silence; neither of us has spoken more than a 'sorry' if we bump into each other. The kitchen has probably had more use tonight than it has in the past decade. I fold my arms on the breakfast bar and rest my head down, having no intention of sleeping but being too tired to stand on my feet any longer.

Blaine sits opposite me once he's finished icing the latest batch of cupcakes, I lift my head to look at him.

"I know what it's like," He declares. "I mean... My parents are still... you know. But that doesn't mean I don't know what it's like to come from a broken family."

"I know, I'm sorry," I sigh. "I wasn't pissed at you, I was just pissed." I pinch the bridge of my nose and grind my palms into my eyes.

"My mom is a terrible drunk, for as long as I can remember she's replaced water with Gin. My father wasn't much better; he's had a sting of a countless number of affairs he parades around the house in front of her face. Then they have the decency to lecture me on the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman when–" he pauses and takes a deep breath to calm the anger I can practically feel radiating from his body. "Whatever... My brother was pretty much the only sane person in the house and when he got offered his big break to move to L.A. I convinced him to take it. In return he paid for my tuition here. I hate it, but it's better than the alternative."

"Your brother sounds like a good guy."

"He is," Blaine admits, fiddling insecurely with his batter-covered sleeve. "Three times the man my father will ever be and twice what I can aim for."

"I'm not entirely sure that's true," I say honestly.

It's his turn to smile.

* * *

"What the hell happened here?" Nick's voice thunders around the kitchen, making Blaine and I jump thankfully from our almost sleeping states. My initial response is to laugh as I lift my arm from where it had been resting on a slab of butter. Blaine isn't in a much better condition; his hair is caked in a variety on concoctions and his face is covered in streaks of sugar.

The room is a mess. Flour and a hundred other ingredients are scattered over the counters and floors. A carton of milk had tipped over at some point and the white pool had gravitated towards the door. Towards Nick's feet. I feel ice drip through my veins. I can deal with Blaine, but I've barely spoken a word to anyone else in Ivyside.

"Blaine, what's going on?" Nick repeats, taking note of me shrinking in on myself and calming down slightly.

"We made breakfast for everyone," Blaine says, thinking quickly and jumping up from his seat. He opens the oven door, pulling out the pancakes we'd left in there to keep warm.

Nick looks at me as though I should contradict him, I say nothing until Blaine gives me a comforting glance, I nod slowly.

"We thought it would be nice," I say feeling brave, my voice coming out a lot stronger than I could have hoped for.

Nick looks between the two of us, his prefect status seeping from every pore in his body and making my hair stand on end until, finally, he gets bored. "You know what, I don't care," he sighs. "You two are clearing all this crap up during your free periods though," he orders. I see him visibly relax and step outside his 'Nick Duval – Prefect' and into his 'Nick Duval – Hungry Student' as he grabs a plate and takes the pancakes Blaine offers. He draws a chair up next to me, still leaving a comfortable distance in-between – maybe according to other people, anyway.

"You look like you could do with some," he says to me, not unkindly.

"I'm not hungry," I lie. Hunger keeps me awake.

He raises an eyebrow and before I can throw back another retort, Blaine walks over and places a plate in front of me full of pancakes, muffins and one of the seeded rolls we made.

"They're delicious," Blaine insists with a grin.

"How would you know?"

"I ate some when you weren't looking."

"Cheat," I accuse, laughing.

Nick watches our tête-à-tête with smug amusement. I have nothing more to say as my stomach grumbles, giving me no choice but to dig in.

It doesn't take long to realise that having freshly cooked food in Ivyside is like leaving sugar by and ant's nest. Soon enough, faces I've never seen before are cramming into the kitchen like it's the last meal they're ever having – I'm almost certain from the looks Nick is giving particular people, they don't even live in this house. Some grab a stack of muffins and disappear back to their rooms, others grab their plates and draw up chairs next to Nick and I. They all tell me their names and introduce themselves but it's all too much for my exhausted brain to process. Blaine stands protectively by the counter, making sure no-one takes more than their allocated amount for breakfast, even though I see him sneaking food by the mouthful.

"Food! Awesome." A blonde haired boy says, bounding into the kitchen. "Can I have Cornflakes?"

Blaine frowns. "Jeff, it's okay. You _can_ have pancakes," he assures.

"Oh..." Jeff responds disappointedly. "But can I have Cornflakes?"

Blaine looks at him incredulously, grabbing a bowl for him and pushing him in the right direction.

Somehow he manages to squeeze in between Nick and I, his bowl sloshes slightly causing his cereal to spill onto the table, earning a sarcastic round of applause from the others seated down.

"Jeff Sterling," he introduces, twisting awkwardly to offer a handshake.

He seems innocent enough, I convince myself. After a second's delay I shake his hand, receiving a surprised eyebrow-raise from Nick.

"Kurt Hummel," I say shyly.

"We thought we'd never see you. We were starting to think Blaine had–"

I don't miss the sharp elbow-stab Nick gives Jeff to make him shut up.

"So Kurt, how are you liking Dalton?" a dark-haired boy asks before I can dwell on it – Thad, if I remember correctly.

"Um–" I begin.

"Settle an argument for us: can you hear me snoring?" someone else asks.

"Can you sing–?"

"Of course he can hear you snoring, everyone can hear you snoring–"

"That's not true–"

"Because if you can, we need you in the Warbler's–"

"The walls are not _that_ thin–"

"Wow, shameless self-promotion much?"

"Trent, Gale _moved_ because of your snoring."

"I'm just saying, if he's got lungs, we need them. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing David, nothing is wrong with that..."

"That's definitely not why he moved–"

"Definitely is–"

"Just throwing it out there, if you're good at writing essays, I'll give you good money–"

"No it's not–"

"No one is going to do your essays–"

"Okay then why did he leave?"

"Well obviously not if no one's taking my money–"

"He left because–"

"Because Sectionals is coming up and it would be great–"

"Exactly, you can't think of anything–"

"Oh my God, everyone, shut up! You're giving _me_ a migraine." A tall boy – I use the word lightly – I've never seen before walks into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Thankfully everyone falls quiet. "Let him breathe."

"You don't usually join us for breakfast, Sebastian," Blaine says. I can't quite put my finger on the tone of his voice but they're something '_off_' about it.

"It doesn't usually smell this delicious."

Blaine reluctantly hands him a plate and everyone is silent until he leaves. I would question it, but the breakfast is making me even more exhausted than usual if that's even possible so I let it slide.

"Right," Nick says, authority back in his voice. "Everyone finish up, classes are in fifteen minutes and I'm not bailing anyone out this time." No one moves. "I mean it. Out!"

That gets people moving, and after a lot of grumbling it's just me and Blaine and a mountain of dirty plates. Blaine notices as I let out the breath I didn't even know I was holding.

"You were great," he assures with a smile. "You'll fit right it."

I nod, my body suddenly alive with adrenaline. I move to stack the plates neatly.

"Leave that, I can do it," he insists.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. You need to get packing anyway, your m– uh, you'll be getting picked up soon, right?"

"Oh..." I say, feeling suddenly downtrodden. "Yeah, I guess."

He turns to the sink and his attention is already miles away. I want to say something but it just seems wrong. There's something about the way the sun filters through the windows and the dirt and the grime swallowing the kitchen is shown in a whole new light. Night is our time, day is not. He's put his walls up. I actually miss the dark.

* * *

_A/N: I felt like adding a load of fluff to make up for all the angst so far (I warn you though, it's far from over)._

_Now I've got to go because my mum is dragging me to see Breaking Dawn again and I'm silently raging._

_Reviews make me go from :| to :D_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: I'm on a roll. But don't get too used to updates this frequent. I've got a lot of college work over the next couple of weeks that might just kill me. Still, I'll be writing whenever inspiration hits!_

_Warnings: substance abuse._

* * *

**Chapter 9**

* * *

Cooking without Blaine is dull. Reading without Blaine is dull. Time without Blaine is dull. Staying awake without Blaine is more pointless and tiring than ever before. It's not the fact that it's Blaine, it's just that it's someone who understands me and relates to me more than anyone I've ever met before. Now that I know what it's like to spend my nights with him, it's lonely and cold and far too quiet being alone. Even Moss can't keep me awake as he pads beside me in the kitchen.

I sit at the dining table and he sits on the floor, resting his head on my knee. I absentmindedly play with his ears and his tail wags behind happily. I wish I was a dog. Not a care in the world.

"I think I'm going to have to call it a night," I tell him grudgingly.

His ears prick up and he yawns softly.

"Yeah, I know." I say for the sake of saying something.

The house is so silent that somehow it's loud. I can hear the humming of the refrigerator and the clunking of the central heating and the soft tap-tap-tap of Moss' tail on the stone floor. It's giving me a headache. I can't help the twinge of grief at the realisation that this is no longer my home. I guess home is where the heart is and I barely have a heart. I wish I was back at Dalton, not that Ivyside is a place I can even remotely call home, but at least Ivyside has Blaine and Blaine is never boring. Boredom: the waking man's worst enemy.

"C'mon, boy," I stand up and stretch tall.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the blackened window and it makes me feel sick. I self-consciously re-arrange my top so it covers my horribly protruding hipbones. I was never what people would call 'fat'. I was healthy. I was radiant. Well-built. Toned, even. There's none of that now, just sickly skin over weakened bones.

Moss nudges my leg gently in comfort and I sigh.

"Let's get you to bed," I mumble.

* * *

_You let this happen._

I wake up, panting and sweating and doubling over, I run as fast as I can to the bathroom and heave dryly into the sink.

* * *

Carole barely stops the car outside Dalton and I'm already halfway out the door. She quickly places a hand on mine.

"Kurt, wait," she says, tugging me back into the Navigator.

I reluctantly sit back and shut the door, turning to her expectantly.

She purses her lips and her eyes begin to water. "I just..." she begins, taking a breath and audibly swallowing. "When your father... passed... I made a promise that I would look out for you... be there for you. I know I've done a terrible job, I was too wrapped up in myself and I didn't pay attention to the signs but I just want you to know–" She takes a moment to steady herself, wiping the runaway tears from her cheeks. "I want you to know that I love you. And I'm so sorry for not being there for you when you needed someone."

I'm taken aback for a moment. To be honest, I didn't think she cared that much.

She continues when I don't reply, "I know you probably hate me for doing this, but just believe me when I say I did it all in your best interest."

"I don't hate you."

Carole sniffs and nods with a sad smile. "Thank you," she says, her voice cracking.

I let her reach over and hug me and for a second I even hug her back. I let her place a kiss on my cheek before she gives me one last squeeze, grasping my hand lovingly and finally letting me go.

I still get lost walking through Dalton, even when I keep near the endless throng of students walking through to the courtyard. The walls are too samey, not even the décor really gives anything away as far as location is concerned.

"Kurt?"

I flinch.

"Kurt! Hey, Kurt."

I turn to the voice, instantly feeling guilty for cowering away the first time.

"Jeff... Hi," I say, feigning confidence and waiting for him to catch up to me.

He smiles, showing a perfect set of white teeth. "How was your weekend?"

"Great," I lie. "How was yours?"

"Amazing," he says, walking beside me. "My girlfriend somehow got me tickets to this band I've wanted to see for years. They were incredible."

"Oh, cool," I say honestly. "I've never been to a concert."

"No way–"

"Sterling!"

We both look behind us to see Nick trying to catch up.

"I can't believe you went without me! How were they?" Nick asks, falling into step with us.

"Brilliant!" Jeff grins.

"Hey Kurt," he acknowledges kindly, I smile awkwardly in reply. "Jeff, we made a promise months ago that if we got tickets we'd go together, you dick!"

"Yes, but going with you wouldn't have gotten me laid."

"Doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you," Nick jokes.

I almost trip out of step but I recompose myself swiftly, disconcerted at the offhanded way they talk about sex.

"You alright?" Nick asks, his brow creasing slightly.

I nod quickly.

"Speaking of being alright... What did you do to Blaine?"

I feel a lead weight drop to my stomach, only when I notice the corners of Nick's mouth twitch up do I relax.

"Why? What did you do?" queries Jeff nosily.

"I... It..." I start, feeling horribly guilty.

"He gave him a black eye," Nick explains, looking like he's trying very hard to hold himself back from bursting into laughter.

"It was an accident," I plead.

"Relax, he's used to it," Jeff laughs.

"No, no, not like that," Nick cuts in, acknowledging my horrified expression. "He does boxing."

"Oh," I say, not that it lessens my fault.

"Although usually it's just... punch bags," Jeff admits.

Great.

* * *

"Blaine?" I call out warily, stepping into our darkened dorm room and leaving my bag by the door before shutting it; it's not even five in the evening and the curtains have been drawn. "Blaine?" I ask again, I feel against the wall and flip on the light switch. "Holy–" I gasp. "Jesus! Blaine!"

I rush over to him and crouch down by his side. He looks at me with blown pupils in a spaced-out kind of way. I support his neck to stop him from bashing his head on the floor as he leans back too far. He just laughs, falling back and trying to pull me with him.

"Blaine, look at me," I implore. The guilt I feel for his darkened eye is very quickly overpowered by annoyance.

He makes a mewing noise in the back of his throat, tilting his head back leaving his neck perfectly on display. I feel my mouth go dry as I watch a bead of sweat cascade over his Adam's apple.

"Blaine," I try and say as clearly as possible.

He doesn't look at me, he lolls his head to the side and something about the carpet catches his attention, I firmly place my hands on either side of his face and finally I see a flash of recognition behind his features. His skin is too cold and wet from sweat under my fingertips. I try to ignore the panic threatening to drown me.

"Blaine, what did you take?" I beg. He drags his lower lip into his mouth and laughs to himself. "Blaine!" I say helplessly.

"Wait," he frowns, "why are you sad?"

"I'm not–"

He reaches a cold hand to my cheek and swipes away a tear. I ignore it. I ignore the tightening in my chest, feeling as though someone is doing up a belt around my lungs. I ignore the burning desire to punch him in the face again. I ignore it all because he needs my help and so instead I envelope myself in a numb calm.

"What did you take?" I repeat, enunciating every syllable as clear as crystal.

He looks around helplessly and his eyes settle on a small orange pill bottle. "I don't..."

"When?" I ask firmly. "When did you take them?"

He frowns to himself as though trying to work out some elaborate math problem. It probably wouldn't matter anyway at this point, the drugs seem to be well into his system, throwing up wouldn't do anything.

"Can you stand up?" I ask, leaning back on my heels and trying to sit him up in the process.

"Why?"

"It's a game," I improvise.

"What do I get if I win?"

"I–"

"A kiss?" he proposes.

I'm past caring enough to even blush. "Yes," I say, my mind already on the task ahead.

He looks at me with his wide, alien eyes. I don't miss the way they glance down to my lips before looking up again. It's a struggle more on my behalf than his as I try to help stand him up.

"This is fun," he comments with a laugh. My nostrils flare. "I win," he grins.

"It's not over yet."

He groans and juts his lip out childishly.

It's hard work but I manage to get him into our en-suite. "No-no-no-no-no," I whine when he reaches out to sit on the closed toilet seat. I double my efforts in keeping him upright, I feel like my spine is going to collapse. "Blaine, I need you to get in the shower," I instruct.

I pay no attention to the mischievous eyebrow raise and lazy grin he throws my way. He reaches down to undo his pants and I quickly steady his hands.

"They can stay on," I assure, despite the hitch in my breathing.

It's something I'm positive Blaine notices too, even in his state. He looks to my lips again then down to where my hand is still holding onto his. He twists his wrist in my grasp gently so his fingertips are tracing strange patterns on the inside of my arm, my palm brushes against his abdomen. I can practically hear my heartbeat in my ears and I'm surprised my chest isn't visibly shaking from the force. It's a feeling I'm all too familiar with, but at the same time this is nothing like that. My heart is beating fast for entirely different reasons. My stomach is churning, not from repulsion, but from desire. My skin doesn't crawl, it feels like fire, a warmth, a welcome heat.

"Shower," I say, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

He blinks for a moment as though finally taking in his surroundings. Clearing his head. Sobering up, I hope. He drops his arm to his side and doesn't protest when I carefully nudge him into the shower. I adjust the shower settings, not too cold he freezes and sweats out, not too hot it makes him dizzy. When I'm happy I push him under the spray and step away, closing the glass screen so the bathroom doesn't flood.

"Can I take my clothes off now?" I hear over the running water.

I rub my temples, trying to think clearly.

"I'm taking them off," he decides when I don't answer.

I turn away and take a deep breath, trying not to dwell too much on what's happening.

"Kurt?" he asks faintly, acknowledging me for the first time.

"I'm here," I comfort, my voice cracking slightly. I quickly try to disguise it with a cough.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually.

I nod before realising he can't see me. "I... It's okay."

We say nothing more and I let the realisation of everything that just happened wash over me, leaving me hollow and drained. Eventually I hear the water stop and I silently pass a fluffy towel to him round the corner. He steps out of the shower steadily with the towel hanging almost dangerously low around his hips. I look at his eyes and am pleased to see his pupils have retreated to a slightly more reasonable size.

He follows me on his own two feet out of the bathroom. He goes to his wardrobe and I turn away again, giving him the privacy to get dressed.

* * *

"I'm tired," he says, finishing off the soup I grabbed him from the kitchen. He can tell when I begin to consider it in my mind. "I'm okay, it's out," he promises.

"I'll keep an eye on you still," I reason.

He nods thankfully and makes his way over to his bed rather than just lying down on the sofa. It's only a couple of minutes before I hear the deep breathing of sleep fill the air. I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, wanting to cry and collapse in on myself, but I don't. I see the harmless looking container of pills and pick it up, going back to the bathroom and flushing the rest of them down the toilet without a second thought. At least I was right about my 'Blaine not being boring' theory.

"Kurt?" I hear. I go back to Blaine quickly. "Stay with me?" he asks, sounding so helpless I don't have the heart to turn away. He moves over awkwardly, lifting his covers in invitation.

I don't tell my feet to move, but they do it anyway. I slip off my shoes and clamber in beside him, he lets the duvet wrap around us and we become entwined together.

"You were amazing," he says softly. "How did you know what to do?"

"Adrenaline, I guess," I reply, subtly feeling his skin in the enclosed space, happier it's at a more normal temperature. "I barely did anything, anyway."

"If you didn't stand me up I could have passed out and..."

"Well I did stand you up, so stop fretting."

"Thank you," he says sincerely.

There's nothing after that. Only silence. I feel Blaine fall asleep again and I will myself in vain not to do the same. His heartbeat and the steady rising and falling of his chest becomes my lullaby and slowly, slowly I drift into darkness.

* * *

_A/N: So... Yeah._

_This wasn't originally how I planned for it to go but then I had the urge to write DangerouslyHigh!Blaine and yeah..._

_By the way, I love you for reading this story._


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Your reviews make me ridiculously happy!_

* * *

**Chapter 10**

* * *

I'm so comfortable. I've never felt so warm and tranquil in my life. I could probably fly if I wanted to. I could fly and be one with the air, float in the clouds, soar with the birds. I feel like I could run for miles and swim for days. I feel like I could bring about world peace and answer the question to the meaning of life and still make it home by dinner. But, of course, I'm not going to do any of that; I'm far too content right here right now.

I stretch and try to get the knots out of my back, sinking back and curling into the solid warmth beside me. _What is that anyway?_ I wonder, my mind still muzzy from sleep.

Sleep.

I sit bolt upright and I feel him stir beside me.

"Kurt?" he grumbles, waking from my sudden movement, throwing his arm over his face to shield his eyes.

It's bright. The sun filters through the drawn curtains, coating the room in a filmy light.

It's not possible.

Blaine sits up beside me, yawning and rubbing his un-bruised eye. I look at him and he smiles groggily at me. I wait until... there it is. His face falls in disbelief and his eyes widen.

He opens and closes his mouth, not knowing how to form words. "What–" he begins. "How– What the f–"

I laugh. It's a shocking sound.

"We slept?" he asks quietly.

My eyes are beginning to water, I nod and bite my lips. His mouth parts and his eyebrows tug down, he looks away into empty space as if he's seeing everything for the first time. I know what he's looking at because I'm looking at it too: everything. It's as though my brain has switched itself over to HD; colours are more vivid, sounds are less deafening, I feel alive.

"What happened last night?" he asks guiltily in a small voice.

I turn and glare at him. "You...!" All the feelings from the night before flood over me again. The fear, the panic, the anger. I lift my hand as if to hit him before changing my mind and pulling him into a hug instead. He takes a moment to respond, but eventually his arms snake round my back, holding me close as I bury my face in his neck. "You scared the shit out of me," I accuse, mumbling the words into his shoulder. I slowly pull away and stand up, leaving him to fill in the rest of the blanks.

I walk around the room, taking everything in, seeing everything with fresh eyes, processing it all in my unclogged mind.

"What's the time?" Blaine asks after a moment.

I walk over to the coffee table where my phone was rested and click the screensaver off. I mumble to myself as I work out the math.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks again.

"Five forty-three P.M." I look at him incredulously. "We slept for eighteen hours... We practically missed a whole day."

"I don't know how we're going to convince Nick to let us off this one."

* * *

It's been three days since Blaine and I slept together – in the most innocent sense of the word – maybe I'm still refreshed from that and it's why I'm feeling a little braver today than I usually do. We've spent the past few nights awake together again. We talk more, we have inside jokes, he makes me laugh – which is an entirely foreign concept to me – and in rare moments I'd say something that catches him off guard, he'd look down and laugh bashfully, gazing up at me through fanned eyelashes. It was those times my throat would go dry and I'd get my stomach doing cartwheels.

"Why are you here, Kurt?" Miss Pillsbury asks once again.

"Because..." I start, swallowing the lump in my throat and being exceptionally bold.

Miss Pillsbury looks up in surprise and then keeps statue still – barely breathing as though I'm an animal she's trying to hunt. She gives a small nod and smile in encouragement.

"Because..." I repeat again, my courage dissipating rapidly. "Because I'm sad." It comes out as more of a question.

I can visibly see the victory emanate from her skin. "And why are you sad?" she presses, her tone sounding odd as she's torn between using her 'counsellor voice' and having the urge to do a victory lap.

_Where do I even begin?_ "You've read my file," I say dully.

"That doesn't matter. I need to hear it from you."

"I'm sad because I don't sleep." _Well, apart from once..._

"Why don't you sleep?"

"Because of the dreams."

"What are the dreams about–?"

"I'm also sad because I find it almost impossible to talk to other people, I'm practically an orphan, I have no home, no family, no life."

"What are the dreams about?" she repeats.

My throat clamps shut and I try to swallow it away. I feel sick.

"Kurt..." she says softly.

"They're about him. Always about him."

"Who–"

"I'm not saying his name!" I snap, fighting back the tears while my heart beats erratically, hammering in my chest and threatening to explode.

She pauses for a moment and briskly scribbles down in her notebook. "You missed our session the other day. What was that all about?"

"I was..." I trail off and shrug.

"_You were._..?" she encourages.

"Sleeping."

I can tell that clearly wasn't the answer she was expecting. "So you ca–"

"It's a long story," I interrupt before she says anything I'll be too pissed off about.

"We have time."

I purse my lips. Part of me wants to stop talking and curl in on myself like all our other sessions, another part begs to tell this almost-stranger everything. "It was different."

"What was different about it?"

I take a deep breath. "I fell asleep with my roommate."

I notice her eyes flash with a thousand questions, none of which she can ask because that would be giving the _'I need _you_ to tell me' _game away.

"Your roommate?" she asks.

"Blaine–"

"Anderson?" she says in disbelief, something crosses her features as she processes that particular piece of information and scribbles it down. "That... Okay..."

I don't respond, I feel myself slipping into unsafe territory.

"Have you slept since?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because," I say, hoping it's enough. It isn't, she waits for me to continue. "What if it was just a fluke?"

"What if it wasn't?" she smiles.

* * *

It's a strange sight in 221. Blaine sits cross-legged on his bed, wearing a neat pyjama suit, and I sit cross-legged on my own bed in a pair of old slacks and a t-shirt. I poke absentmindedly at a hole by my knee, if this – in some miraculous way – actually works, I'd have to invest in some new nightwear. The ceiling light is off but our bedside ones are still on.

"What if it doesn't work?" Blaine asks, voicing my own fear.

"Then it doesn't work."

He nods and lies back awkwardly, I mirror him from the other side of the room. We both hesitate before taking a deep breath and leaning over to our respective lamps, switching them off so the room is engulfed in darkness.

I try and relax, I force myself to sink into my pillow and will myself to drift off. None of it feels right. I'm too stressed to even begin thinking about sleep. As the minutes pass I can sense Blaine is in the same predicament. I'm about to turn back over and switch the light on, admitting defeat when I hear Blaine slide out of his bed and walk over to my side.

"What're you–"

"Do you trust me?" he asks softly, I can make out his silhouette through the darkness as he crouches down by my bed.

"Yes," I respond without hesitation.

"Then trust me."

I nod, knowing what he's asking of me, I slide closer to the wall and lift the covers up enough to let him slip in by my side, glad he was the one to propose the idea. It's only a single bed and we quickly realise it's a tighter fit than we remembered; our knees and arms bash together at awkward angles and his forehead collides with my nose a number of times. We whisper apologies until we somehow manage to fit together in the tiny space. I use his bicep as a pillow and throw my arm around his back so he doesn't fall out, his other arm wraps around me securely. It feels kind of perfect.

He's the first to fall asleep. I hear his breathing deepen and his arm around my waist fall heavier. I feel safe... almost too safe. And so while his heartbeat slowly sends me to sleep, I ponder the moment I realised I was falling for Blaine Anderson.

* * *

_A/N: I hope you guys are alright with the pacing so far. It might seem a little rushed, but I still have plenty in mind. That being said, I haven't been able to bring myself to write too much angst recently because it hURTS SO MUCH! So I hope your satisfied with the fluffiness._

_Seriously, how much did your heart break from Glee last night? I was screaming at my laptop like it was nobody's business..._

_Also, if you're feeling lovely, go check out my new story Coffee Bean. LOTS OF FLUFF!_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

* * *

"We should do something," Blaine says casually.

I look up from my essay – a task much easier well rested. "What do you mean?"

"Well what time are you getting picked up?"

I'd almost forgotten it was a Friday. "Seven."

Blaine swings his legs and jumps off the bed. "If we leave soon we could go get dinner."

"Why?" I ask hesitantly.

"Both got to eat," he explains, waving a flippant hand.

I urge the stupid fluttering in my stomach to go away. "O-kay... I don't know how much money I ha–"

"My treat," he assures with a smile.

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

I bite my lip and nod. "Okay," I agree. "But only if I can pay you back some other time."

"I'll hold you to that," he grins.

I look down at my attire and feel instantly underdressed. The hoodie needs to go. And so do the baggy jeans. "Just... One minute," I request.

Blaine doesn't say anything, he just patiently sits back down on the edge of his bed while I throw my essay to the side and go over to my wardrobe. There are only a few shirts and pants hanging up in the small space, at the time I didn't see the point, but now I'm glad I had the sense to hang at least a few to stop the creases. I nervously pick out a plain button-down shirt and an old pair of skinny jeans and rush off to the bathroom.

I don't know where this burst of almost-confidence is coming from. Maybe it's from the thirty hours of sleep I've had this week, or the food I've been eating, or the fact I can look out a window at daytime without being struck by a migraine. Whatever it is, it's changing me. I'm growing tired of my life being one big pity party.

I strip my clothes of and quickly replace them with the ones I picked out. I slip my shirt over my bony frame and even my skinny jeans slide on easily, looking disgustingly shapeless on my legs. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror from the corner of my eye and for the first time in months I willingly turn to look at it. My eyes look less sunken, they look puffy and relaxed and hearty instead of the hollow dips they were a few weeks ago. My face still looks skeletal, but the skin looks less translucent. Even my hair looks healthier, bouncy, bright. I give Mirror Me a quick nod and open the door.

Blaine sits up when he catches sight of me, his lips part slightly and instantly I feel completely ridiculous. I wrap my arms around myself self-consciously.

I raise a shoulder awkwardly. "Too much?"

Blaine makes a noise at the back of his throat which he quickly disguises as a cough. "No," he promises. "You look great."

* * *

We sit opposite each other in the busy restaurant. The waitress just came to take our order and I politely picked the cheapest thing on the menu – which, by my standards, was still an extravagant price to pay for a bowl of pasta – Blaine didn't bat an eyelash and ordered the same.

"So, Kurt Hummel, tell me about yourself."

I take a sip of my Diet Coke and put it back down before responding. "What do you want to know?" I ask. I look around nervously, feeling as though everyone is watching us and sooner or later someone is going to make an unpleasant comment. The clothes are feeling like a bad idea, I want to be wrapped back up in the confines of my baggy sweater.

"Relax," Blaine says. I try my best to. "Just... I don't know. What do you like? What don't you like? What are you passionate about?"

Passion. That's something I haven't felt in a long time. "I used to want to be a fashion designer, I guess." Blaine smiles in encouragement and I continue. "Either that or sing on Broadway," I trail off in a laugh to make it easier to deal with when he mocks me. He doesn't.

"So you can sing?" he asks, taking a sip of his own drink.

I shrug.

"Maybe you _should_ join The Warblers," he adds.

"Sounds like too many people," I say shyly.

"They're good guys."

"I'm not... I know... I just..."

"Sorry, I get it." He looks at me sadly – a look other people would often lace with pity – with Blaine it's different and I only see compassion behind his eyes. "The offer would still stand if you ever changed your mind."

I nod gratefully. "What about you, anyway?" I ask.

He worries his lip. "I honestly don't know anymore."

"That's not fair," I accuse. "I told you mine, you tell me yours. What about that piano music I sometimes hear when I'm let out of class early?"

He raises a sculpted eyebrow and turns one corner of his mouth up in a lopsided grin. "I didn't know you knew about that."

I shrug again and take another sip of my drink. "Sometimes I wait for you to finish before going in."

"Thank you," he says softly. I brush it off with a wave of my hand as if it's no big deal. "My brother taught me to play when I was a kid," he elaborates, "There's something, I don't know... therapeutic about it."

"Well, from what I've heard, you play beautifully."

He laughs nervously and I see a blush running up to his cheeks. "No one's ever really heard me before."

We fall into a comfortable silence until our food is brought to our table, he waits for me to start and I roll my eyes.

"You have to eat, Kurt," he reprimands.

"Because you're such a good role model for what people _have_ to do," I mumble around a mouthful of pasta.

He tries to hold back a smile as he digs into his own food elegantly. It always makes him smile when I let down my shield and my snarky side comes out.

* * *

I pull my collar up against the freezing air as soon as we're out of reach from the warmth of the restaurant, shielding my face from the wind's whipping licks. Blaine fumbles in his pocket for his lighter with numb hands and, after a few failed clicks, sets his cigarette alight and slides it back in his coat. I can't help the pang of annoyance as I glare at the offending roll of tobacco. We set off back to Dalton slowly.

"No snide remark about this?" Blaine challenges jokingly as he playfully tries to bite at the escaped smoke.

"It's not your worst vice," I say seriously.

"I deserved that one..."

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" Food and sleep apparently make me more assertive than either of us is used to; he does a double take at my tone.

"What do you want to–"

"Why?" I ask bluntly, remembering the night I found him lying on the floor in a cold sweat, his pulse week and his eyes wide.

We both stop walking and he looks into nothing as he tries to think of an acceptable response. He parts his lips a few times before biting them in annoyance.

"I mean... Did you even think about what it would be like– Did you even care– And then_ I_ had to– Jesus..." I rub my temples slowly to calm myself down.

"I wasn't thinking," he says eventually. He awkwardly stubs out his cigarette and looks at me as if to say '_there, now look how good I'm being'_, only to pull another one out after a moment's silence.

I let out a humourless laugh.

"Look, it wasn't my fault," Blaine defends with frustration, lighting his cigarette in one swift, knowing movement. "Hunter put some weird shit in this one."

I glare at him in disappointment and his defensive stance softens.

"You're no Saint, yourself," he accuses.

I scoff. "What I do doesn't mentally scar whoever I come into contact with."

"Really?" he probes.

I nod.

"So you don't think your stepmom has any guilt over your condition?"

I swallow tightly and grind my jaw.

Blaine continues: "You don't think when she looks in the mirror she hates herself for watching what you've become? You don't think she hates herself when she sees your dinner scooped into the dog bowl or your bed which hasn't been slept in in weeks? You don't think–"

"I get it!" I snap.

He sighs and rubs the palm of his hands into his eyes and his cigarette hangs loosely from the corner of his mouth. "That wasn't... I'm sorry." He looks at me with sincere apology which quickly turns downcast. "I'd had a particularly bad day..." he explains. "And I thought... So I did..."

"You could've died," I say quietly.

"And?" He holds out his hands and lets them fall to his side.

I look at him blankly. "Don't say that."

He clenches his eyes shut and we begin to walk again, he stubs out his second half-burnt cigarette.

"But then _you_... And I realised I was stupid," he says softly, he playfully nudges my shoulder but I still don't smile. "It's not going to happen again."

I look at him dubiously.

"Promise," he adds, making a criss-cross over his heart.

I finally let my lip twitch up and he sighs in content.

"What happened that was so bad, anyway?" I ask, not really expecting an answer.

"I... Uh... Ran into someone..."

I nod and don't press any further. We stay silent for the rest of the walk back to Dalton.

* * *

Carole drives past us at the same time we begin our walk up the driveway. I practically stop dead in my track as panic boils in my throat.

"I'm scared," I say.

Blaine turns to look at me.

It hadn't been the most perfect week, but a week with sleep was a week with sleep and sleep with Blaine was even better. The warmth, the comfort, the gentle squeezes in the middle of the night – there'd be none of that at Lima for the weekend and that realisation turns my veins cold. He takes a step towards me and places a hand on my arm in comfort.

"If you don't think you can do it, just... stay awake."

I nod tightly and try and take a deep breath despite the feeling that my lungs are collapsing. Carole turns the navigator back around and drives towards us so I have less to walk. I quickly pull Blaine in for a hug and his arms wrap securely around me before either of us questions the gesture. Carole stops the car next to us and I let go, opening the passenger door and sliding in without a second glance.

* * *

"You look well," Carole comments chirpily after we've been in the car for almost an hour. "Who was that boy?"

"My roommate," I say, staring straight ahead.

"Oh... Okay," she responds as though she understands. She doesn't. "And is he...?"

"He's my friend," I say for the first time. The word feels warm and right in my mouth and my chest swells with happiness. _Friend_. I have a friend.

She raises her eyebrows and smiles, she says nothing else and turns her concentration back to the road.

* * *

I can feel it creeping up on me. The images try and push through the barriers in my head no matter how forcefully I try to push back.

"Stop!" I shout in my mind. "Go away! Stop!"

The memories flash past like a flip book until suddenly it stops on one page. He's back, standing in front of me. Towering over me. Pushing me, pinning me down. A scream shreds through my throat and I flail my arms, trying to inflict some pain of my own but my blows never find their target. He places his hand around my neck and I choke back a cry as I gasp for breath, I scratch at his hands, trying to pry his fingers from my throat but it's all in vain. Part of me knows I just need to open my eyes and this will all go away. The bigger part is completely hell-bent on getting him away from me; on making him feel pain; to make him feel the humiliation and the earth shattering hopelessness that follows. I'm just not strong enough. Week. Pathetic.

"You let this happen," he growls.

I give one last swipe at the air before my eyes flash open and I retch over the side of my bed. I choke and cough until I feel lightheaded, my dignity lost somewhere on the floor within the putrid remains of my last meal. I roll onto my back, my chest rises and falls harshly and tears flow back into my hairline. I hear a buzzing on my bedside table and reach for my phone blindly. The harsh light emitting from it makes me blink slowly as I read through the message.

_Blaine (2:03AM): It didn't work._

I sniff and wipe my face with the back of my hand before typing out a reply and hitting send.

_Not even a little bit._

* * *

_A/N: You better love me for uploading. I did this instead of the two essays, ten page script and personal statement i need to have done by Wednesday. I fail as a student._

_Who saw that little Klaine/CrissColfer documentary Darren put together? :') Oh god... I think I have cavities from the sweetness!_

_Hope you're still alright with the pacing, I noticed a few people were worried about the 'falling for Blaine Anderson' comment, but just trust ;) It's kind of one step forward, two steps back with these boys, just because certain aspects are going right, doesn't mean their issues with each other and other people have magically disappeared. This isn't like Marley's eating disorder (holy crap that pissed me off)._

_I'll stop rambling._

_Oh also, go check out Coffee Bean and you'll get extra hugs ;)_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: sorrysorrysrysorrysorysorrys orysorrryyyyyyyy_

* * *

**Chapter 12**

* * *

So the idea of sleep that weekend was left as that: an idea. Blaine doesn't text me again and I refuse to lay my head back on my pillow. I spend the hours of the night mostly playing Draw Something with strangers on the internet – something that feels like a new low, even for me – at least it keeps my mind off of it for a while.

I'm surprised when I make my way downstairs on Sunday morning and see Finn and Rachel sitting happily at the breakfast table, talking in hushed voices; I wait around the corner a moment longer than necessary to build up the courage to go in. Rachel looks up when she hears the shifting of my feet and her face instantly melts into a smile, she stands up and rushes over to me, gently pulling me into a hug.

"Kurt you look amazing," she says - I definitely don't feel amazing, not with the sleep-deprived puffiness of my eyes and the swallowed-a-ball-of-fluff feeling on my tongue. Nevertheless, I hug her back just as kindly.

"We made you pancakes," Finn adds from his perch on his seat.

I give my best smile and look down awkwardly, I try to lift my feet off the floor when I walk over to the oven and pull out the food they cooked for me. I could have cooked breakfast during the night but the sudden lack of sleep again has made me even more tired than before. The phrase 'giving an inch and taking a mile' comes to mind.

I sit down with them, something I recall as a common courtesy when people make you breakfast, rather than going back to my cave-like room. As I begin to eat my syrup drowned pancakes, my gaze often floats up to the couple before me. When I look at Finn and Rachel I feel a pang of jealousy shake me to my very core. Why are they allowed to be together? Why is it that they can walk down the street hand in hand and go for a date at Breadstix and live their life together without prejudice and judgement? How can they live so simply when there are people like me who get attacked, or worse, just for looking in the wrong direction? I swallow the anger with a mouthful of food.

* * *

"Have you got everything?" Carole asks, pulling up outside Dalton on cue.

I nod, it would be a bit late if I didn't, anyway.

She looks at me, ready to give her usual parting words before closing her mouth and patting my knee fondly. "You be careful," she orders.

I nod again and look at her carefully before leaning over and pulling her into a hug. If she's startled at the action, she doesn't show it, she hugs me just as tightly and rubs soothing circles on my back and plants a firm kiss on my cheek.

"See you next week," I sniff.

I grab my bag from the backseat and make my way towards the building that becomes my home five days a week.

* * *

The foyer of Ivyside looks like a scene from Saving Private Ryan. The place is in complete pandemonium and for a moment I feel my heart leap to my throat in panic. Overturned furniture is scattered over the room to make barricades, I see some of my housemates duck swiftly, leaving only their makeshift wok-helmets visible over the shelter. Red and blue confetti is sprinkled on every surface and coloured ribbons hang from the chandelier.

"Pick a side, brother!" Jeff orders – a blue handprint has been painted on his face – he throws a Nerf gun at me from his hiding place behind an overturned table.

I catch it and stare at the bright plastic blankly for a moment.

"You can't have him! You just got Trent!" someone calls from the other side of the room.

"What are you talking about? I'm on your side!" Trent shouts from over the balcony above as a cascade of foam bullets rain down on Jeff - who proceeds to scream profanities and childishly throw his gun to the ground.

Just as I thought the scene couldn't get any weirder, a shirtless Blaine storms into the room, his Dalton tie wrapped around his forehead and steaks of red face paint on his cheeks. He sports two Nerf guns which he fires blindly up at the balcony - screams and cusses fall on my ears.

"Dammit Blaine!" someone else shouts down. "You died like three hours ago!"

"Wes gave me this," Blaine calls back, he pulls a tiny red beanbag from his pocket and holds it out to the crowd, much to everyone else's dismay.

"Shoot him, Kurt!" Jeff yells at me. I look at the room before me, just as confused and horrified as the moment I walked in.

"I..." I start.

Blaine turns to me in a challenge, I see him throw me a subtle wink none of the others would be able to see. I quickly pull the trigger and the foam dart shoots out and bounces off of Blaine's chest. He dramatically clutches at his heart before falling to his knees and faceplanting to the ground.

"Right, I quit," Nick says. I hadn't even noticed he was crouched next to me behind a strategically placed chair, he stands up, taking off the pasta strainer on his head and resting down his gun.

"Spoil sport, we haven't even breached the fort," Jeff complains.

Nick shrugs and runs his hands through his hair to fluff it back out, "Kurt won, and I'm hungry."

"I won?" I frown.

"If I order pizza, who'd eat it?"

"Please..." Jeff scoffs, "That's like asking the Hungry Hungry Hippos if they want balls in their mouth... That came out wrong."

"I'm up for pizza," different housemates chant as one by one they discarded their toys and began to set the furniture straight again.

Blaine sits up and leans back on his heels, he brushes dirt from his thighs and chest before elegantly jumping up and tightening the Rambo-esque tie around his head.

"You have a nice weekend?" he grins, walking over to me. He reaches down and picks up the bag I'd dropped in the confusion as I walked in and I take it back from him gratefully.

"Oh... You know," I shrug.

"Same," he sighs. He looks as me as if examining the damage the weekend had on me, I purse my lips awkwardly, noticing the same things in him. "I was gonna wait for pizza and then I was thinking... Sleep?" he says the last word quietly as though it's something dirty.

I laugh softly and nod. "Sounds perfect," I agree. "I'd better go unpack and shower, so I'll see you upstairs."

"Okay," he smiles, turning on the balls of his feet and joining the others in the kitchen.

* * *

I throw on my makeshift pyjamas at the same time as I hear Blaine open the door and instantly the smell of melted cheese makes my mouth water. I hang up my towel and open the bathroom door.

"Saved some for you," Blaine says, trying to chase the cheese pulling away from the slice in his hand. I notice he's washed off the face paint and opted in for a shirt - I push away the fact I'm slightly disappointed.

"Thank you," I respond. I collapse next to him on his bed and cross my legs, happily taking the slice he offers me.

"So..." he starts once I'm settled down.

"So? What was all that about when I walked in?" I ask bravely.

Blaine grins and laughs to himself. "Oh, Nick's father visited. It's become a sort of tradition with him where he brings us a crap-tonne of free stuff. This month is was Nerf Guns."

I nod in semi-understanding.

"What's your favourite movie?"

I raise my brow, surprised at the question. "Uh... _It's A Wonderful Life_."

"Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings..." He smiles and I smile in return.

"What's yours?" I ask, picking at a slice of tomato.

"Mine? _Gladiator_."

I cock an eyebrow.

"Russell Crowe running around in scantily-clad armour? Yes please," he explains.

"Yeah, I see what you mean," I laugh. We both reach for another slice of pizza.

"Would you rather be a fish afraid of water or a bird afraid of heights?"

I stare at him curiously. "The bird."

"Serious?"

"Yeah. I mean, I could just sit in a tree or something, I don't have to fly anywhere."

"How about: go back in time with all the dinosaurs or have dragons magically exist in our world today?"

I feel his forehead: "Are you okay?"

"I'm trying to get to know you," he laughs.

I roll my eyes before realising my hand is still on his face and I quickly drop it to my side. "Sorry," I mumble, scratching the back of my neck.

"Don't-" he shakes his head quickly and awkwardly clears his throat. "Want to try and get some sleep?" he asks when I've finished my slice, already closing the box and leaving it on the desk.

* * *

I wish I could hold a conversation, I wish I could move on with my life, most of all I wish that right now my brain would let me sleep instead of running round in circles at a hundred miles an hour. Blaine's curled up beside me, one arm is slung around my waist and I use his other as a cushion. He moves gently in his sleep, often he holds me tighter or stretches his leg and buries his face in my neck, it's peaceful.

And that scares me.

Peaceful... I haven't been peaceful in years and yet here I am, wrapped in the arms of another man - so comfortable it puts me on edge. I don't trust my own judgement, that's my problem. I constantly have to question everything around me: why did he use that word? Why does he smile in that way? Why does he make everything feel so easy? More importantly: why does he make me want everything to feel so easy? My life is turning into an oxymoron. Fearful peace, staged ease, confusing serenity. It's exhausting and it's giving me a headache.

I clench my eyes shut, reminding myself that I'm safe and secure as I will myself to sleep. _'I have Blaine, everything's fine,'_ my brain repeats.

I feel his arm tense underneath me and once again he pulls me closer, I welcome the warmth, the protection, the comfort. I welcome Blaine. He sighs softly in his sleep and I feel his lips press against my shoulder in a gentle kiss. The corner of my mouth turns up involuntarily and once again I mentally scold myself for it. My mind goes into overdrive once more and the whole process starts again.

Friends. Best friends. Because I'm not ready for anything else - I'm not stable.

* * *

_A/N: AGAIN SORRY IT'S BEEN LIKE 2 MONTHS BUT I'VE BEEN SO STRESSED HOPE YOU'RE STILL READING I'LL TRY AND DO BETTER SHHH I PROMISE._

_New chapter of Coffee Bean should be up in the next few days and I'll try and write this as much as possible just... Love meeeee._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

* * *

We have a routine now and it feels nice, it's sweet, it's practical, it's domesticated. We finish classes; we meet in the kitchen; I cook us dinner and we eat together - occasionally downstairs, more often in our room - he showers, I do my homework; I shower, he does his. Then we smile and take a breath and we're happy for a little while, we turn off the lights and climb into one of our beds and with practiced ease we curl together and fall asleep. He holds me close every night in his strong, protective arms and the warmth of my body simply reminds his to breathe.

For once I feel like I'm living rather than surviving. I smile more, there's a spring in my step, and I no longer visibly recoil when my housemates try and talk to me. The other day I even walked up to Nick and plucked a conversation out of thin air. I feel unstoppable. I feel alive.

"Dinner?" Blaine asks during our afternoon free period.

I sit at my desk, flipping through my algebra textbook. For once it's actually making sense, I genuinely understand how x^3 − 3x^2 + 3x − 1 = 0. It's like those cartoons where the light bulb flicks on above your head. I scribble down my working before responding, "I'll cook something in a sec, what did you want?"

"Actually I was thinking we could go out somewhere."

"Like before?"

"Like before," he agrees.

I put my pen down and frown to myself. "Or like a... date?" I ask, I sound more confused than I am working on my algebra.

Blaine puffs his cheeks and juts out his chin. "I mean, not if... But if you... I mean I..." he rests his palm on his chest and splutters awkwardly. "Like friends and stuff... Or... But..."

"Okay," I agree.

"Awesome," he says, visibly relieved and then frowning to himself as he wonders whether or not we're on the same page.

I close my textbook slowly, "I'll go get dressed then," I tell him.

He nods and perches himself on the edge of his bed, he already looks respectfully presentable and so I pull some clothes out of my dresser and head for the en suite. I strip down quickly and as usual I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I smile. I really smile, I grin widely and the man in the glass beams back at me. I stop in my state of undress and let my fingers trace my ribs, I'm more than happy to find they actually have some sort of meat on them. I pinch my waist and pull gently, even happier I'm no longer just ripping skin away from bone. I pout and squish my cheeks together and I laugh before I can help myself.

"Are you alright?" Blaine asks from the other room.

"Never better," I reply even with my voice coming out distorted from where I'm still holding my face. I drop my hands to my side and smile brightly once more. I shake my head and quickly pull my pants and shirt on, pleasingly satisfied now that I'm filling out in them and they're beginning to fit.

* * *

I hold the door open for him in an attempt to be some sort of chivalrous gentleman and he smiles and ducks under my arm into the warmth.

"Table for two?" the waitress asks before I've even unbuttoned my coat.

Blaine nods and accepts the menus she hands him and then we're lead through the restaurant to a slightly more secluded table. He slides into the booth and I follow suit.

"Drinks?" the waitress asks, pulling a notepad from her apron and tapping the end of her pen against it impatiently.

"Just a Diet Coke, please," I say quickly, Blaine orders the same and she leaves us to decide on our dinner.

I stare down the list, my mouth waters slightly and I feel my stomach rumble. I realise that I'm truly hungry, not just for the sustenance or the mundane necessity but for the taste and the texture. It feels foreign but not at all unwelcome.

"You look... nice," Blaine compliments, he peers over the top of his menu sheepishly.

I feel my cheeks warm and I bite my lips to try and stifle my smile. "Thank you. You don't look too bad yourself."

We fall back into silence and my eyes drift down the list of food. Pizza. Or the tagliatelle. Or the meatballs or lasagne or the cannelloni... There's so much choice and my mind spins into overdrive thinking about all the delicious food I've ignored for the past two years.

"I think I'm going to have the cheese ravioli," Blaine says to himself.

I save myself the trouble and decide to order the same as I close my menu. He does the same soon after and the waitress appears again and puts our drinks down on the table, scribbling our order on her pad before disappearing once more.

"So," Blaine starts.

The corner of my mouth twitches up, "So."

"Before..." he starts, looking torn but continuing anyway, "you said _date_."

I worry my cheek and grow more and more uncomfortable every second. "No, but like... I mean, I didn't mean..."

"What did you mean?"

"I don't know," I shrug honestly.

He smiles warmly, "Hey, stop freaking out."

"I'm not fr..." I realise he's joking and I take a deep breath. "I just thought- it doesn't matter."

"How about I go first?" I don't interrupt and he continues anyway. "I like you, Kurt."

"Like _like_ like?" I ask insecurely.

"Like _like_ like," he laughs softly before leaning forward. "But I get it, okay? I get what you've been through and I refuse to be that guy. I don't want to... The ball's in your court, deal?"

"What if I don't know how to throw?" I ask while trying my best to not sound completely helpless. "What if I'm just staring at this ball and I want nothing more than to... play... but I'm too scared to start the game."

"I guess that's what your coach is for," he says, keeping up our metaphor.

Coach. Right; Miss Pillsbury. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. I feel Blaine's hand slip into mine and squeeze gently.

"Listen," he says softly, "I wasn't going to mention anything but I-I just felt... I don't know, okay? Forget it. You don't have to stress over it."

"When I'm with you I feel normal," I respond quietly, his hand slips out of mine to give me space - I'm thankful for it. "Or... When I'm with you I want to feel normal. And I don't get it, I don't- I don't understand because I thought after- and then suddenly I'm feeling things and it's all really confusing..."

"How about we come up with some rules?"

"Rules?"

"Yeah... Or not rules. More like helpful guidelines."

"Like what?" I ask, I take a sip of my drink, feeling my mouth begin to dry.

"No labels."

"Meaning?"

"If you want to sleep, we'll sleep, if you want to talk, we'll talk. If you want to... hold my hand, that's fine. And we'll just take it one step at a time. No pressure, just you... doing whatever you're comfortable with."

I mull it over in my mind for a second and then offer a smile. "I'd like that," I blush, scratching the back of my neck.

* * *

We walk slowly back to Dalton. I'm happy and full and the cheese ravioli had definitely been a good decision. Our collars are turned up against the cold and I rub my hands together until I can at least feel them.

"You didn't have to pay," I say for the umpteenth time.

"I wanted to," he yawns with a mumbled apology.

I bite my lips together with a smile while I fall into step besides him. "Thank you," I add sincerely, looking straight ahead as my hand finds his and I let our fingers entwine.

He looks between us with suppressed wonderment and then up at me, apparently pleased with the situation. I raise a nonchalant shoulder, even though my smug grin probably gives me away the true victory I feel.

We walk in a comfortable silence the whole way back with our fingers still woven together and I let his thumb trace patterns on the back of my hand.

* * *

I find myself awake in the middle of the night - not for any particular reason. Blaine's rolled onto his back and managed to drag me with him, leaving me more _on_ him than besides him. Still, I don't mind. Blaine sleeping will never not amaze me; in a non-creepy, non-stalkerish way I could probably watch him for hours: the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the occasional frown or smile - he reminds me of when Moss was a puppy and in his sleep he would twitch his legs as though chasing birds.

"Just so you know," I whisper softly, "I like _like_ like you, too."

His tired arms wrap around my back and hold me closer. I rest my head down over his heart and let the gentle beat send me back to sleep. The worrying can wait for another time because in this moment everything is perfect. I may not know how I'll feel in a day, or two days, or a week, but right now I know I feel happy. I have Blaine and Blaine has me, and as long as we have each other how much could go wrong, really?

* * *

_A/N: Foreshadowing is a dramatic device in which an important plot point is mentioned earlier in the story to return later in a more significant way..._

_No but this is the cheesiest chapter I think I've ever written in my life. But I'm hoping it's a good cheese... Like fondue or camembert._

_Also we're coming up to the half-way point, just to give you some sort of indication. Things get interesting._

_Also sorry the chapters are so short, I'm just trying to write as quick as possible so I don't piss you off with another hiatus. Lord knows people hate them. (Ahem. Take note, Ryan Murphy.)_


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